


The Hot Frenzy

by ChutJeDors



Series: The Hot Series [6]
Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, au where someone's still playing temple run 2, creature is gr8, john has Plans, mary and jim are Rad, paul is a walking menace, somehow this monster just got longer and longer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 08:24:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12883899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChutJeDors/pseuds/ChutJeDors
Summary: Paul is ill. John feels sad, because he can't have Amazing Butt Sex with him now. But John has other ways to keep himself occupied, like escaping Paul's watchful eyes to Liverpool. He has his reasons for that, though... John is scheming, and he hasPlans. HisPlansare amazing.Takes place a few months afterThe Hot Homosexual Tension.





	The Hot Frenzy

**Author's Note:**

> Wow okay so, surprise!!! This series isn't ended!! Yey
> 
> I've had a flu for about three weeks now, which is starting to get real annoying, and I decided to write this one-shot as a small fluffy thing.... and it grew to be something more. It's now a solid block in the series, an official fifth part, containing some _really_ important happenings and meetings that are rather essential, and one, tragic death. rip. (no, it is not george. i'm sorry) I'm not quite sure what actually _happened_ with this.... but yesterday I wrote 9,600 words, _efforlessly_ even, something which I didn't think was _possible_. This is a whopping 18k long, and I blame [imaginebeatles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ImagineBeatles/pseuds/ImagineBeatles). It's her fault. she's ruined me.
> 
> also, the idea about them sending soulful memes to each other came from anon(s?) on tumblr, and i decided to make it canon, and the few memes seen here were sent to me by [pmccartney](http://pmccartney.tumblr.com/) \- thanks a lot, mate <3! ;)
> 
> Enjoy this! ;)

John woke up to Paul coughing and wheezing like a dying man, and immediately recognised the sounds.

“Oh God, oh, no,” he sighed and scrambled for his glasses. The room was still dark, and there was no light coming from the outside, which basically meant that it was _way too early._ John had a feeling he had slept from two to four hours, but it could be more — usually he would need at least seven hours of sleep in an order to appear as a functioning human being, so anything less than that just felt like he was dying.

He pushed the glasses on his nose, miraculously managing to avoid pointing himself in the eye with the frames, and turned to flick on the lamp on the bedside table. He stared at the alarm clock hazily, wondering whether he was hallucinating, or was it really only half past four in the morning? Who on earth thought this was a good time to be awake??

Paul, apparently, didn’t, since he was still sound asleep. He was, however, still making those old man noises, and John had a fleeting thought that whether his _Plans_ succeeded, this was the sound he would wake up to in 60 years when he had to go pee in the middle of the night (because he _would_ have to. He would be _old._ Oh God). It was kind of a nice thought… or would have been, had Paul not _currently_ sounded like he was half-way to the grave at the great age of 23.

John fixed his glasses, blinked a few times, and leaned closer to the man. Paul’s skin looked paler than usually (and John would know, since most of his free time was spent staring at that face), and there was a small frown between his eyebrows — even though he was asleep, there was something troubling him in the dream. John would’ve suggested for another nightmare about lesbian marshmallows (it felt extremely humiliating to be rejected by those), had it not been for the wheezing. Hmm.

Another cough tore through Paul’s throat, and that was _literally_ how painful it sounded. John winced, and got up as quietly as he could. He pulled on a t-shirt and briefs, and hopped over a few shirts to get to the door with masterful moves, regardless of his mind being in some sort of an alternative reality where he was still asleep.

He opened the door and something soft flashed past his feet into the room. As he turned to look behind himself, his mind incredibly slow on the uptake, Creature jumped on the bed without a care of the world, made her way over to Paul, and curled up into a ball on his pillow. John stared at the sight for a moment, before he smiled, feeling something stupidly sugary expand in his chest.

“Watch after him for a sec, will you, girl?” he asked, and Creature let out a soft meow. John didn’t think she understood him, but appreciated the effort anyway.

Yawning on his way, he walked into the kitchen, rummaged around for a while to find a clean glass (how was it _always_ so difficult??) and after succeeding, filled it with water. Then he tip-toed past the front door into the bathroom, trying to be extra quiet just in case George and Ringo were somehow awake, either staying up for some extra sex, or early awake for some extra sex.

He passed a soft towel under the cool water, feeling like death itself as he stared at himself in the mirror, his thoughts running slowly without him being able to grasp them logically. His sight seemed to be somewhat reduced, even though he had his glasses on and his eyes _were_ open (he was almost 80 percent sure of that). His teddy bear t-shirt was ruffled, and his hair was attempting to leave this sphere — or at least John thought that the auburn-coloured puffy cloud that hovered above his head was his hair.

 _‘Unless I grew an extraordinary mushroom network during the night,’_ he thought, but even in his hazy state he had to admit that the cloud being his hair sounded more probable.

The towel was now entirely soaked in water, and John started slightly, swaying on his feet as he started rolling it up, his mind returning to his body. Oh, the things he did for love. Ugh.

 _‘Never did for Cyn,’_ he mused and yawned again, blinking a few times before he shook his head forcefully to stay awake. Nah, with Cyn it had been all fun and games, before the fun had left and all that stayed were the bloody games that never had any outcome. With Paul —well, this feeling had come to stay, and John was sure of that. He wouldn’t have his _Plans_ if he wasn’t sure about that.

The towel dry enough, slapped over his shoulder where the remaining dampness started soaking through his shirt, the glass in his hand, he exited the bathroom, and stepped right into Ringo’s nose.

“Oh,” he said, and blinked. Ringo blinked, his eyes barely open.

“Hmm,” Ringo answered, and John stared. They both blinked.

“Paul,” John said, and pointed at the glass. Ringo stared. And blinked.

“Pee,” he said, and pointed at his crotch. John figured it was fair, nodded and moved out of the way.

The encounter behind him, he hurried to get back into the room before he would run into George, which was something he didn’t have any energy for at this time of the night. Ringo was always fine, really — his presence seemed to calm George’s crazy energy somewhat, even though John still wasn’t entirely sure if the man was just actually the mastermind behind everything. All things considered, it was possible, if not slightly unlikely. Maybe. Who knew? It was a bit like with aliens; you couldn’t be 100 percent sure of their existence if they didn’t land their ship on your house, burn it down, and take over the world while they were at it.

Mind you, that was how it felt with George in the household; in truth, John could’ve probably handled the aliens even better than he did their... _friend_.

Back in the room, forcefully removing the ever-present presence of George and his terrible doings from his mind, John put the glass and the towel on the bedside table. Paul was still sleeping, and his wheezing had moved onto the next level — maybe there was a cat hair in his throat? Creature had made herself comfortable, her back against Paul’s shoulder, her butt against Paul’s cheek. Served him right for waking John up at 4:3o am.

Unfortunately, John was going to have to disturb the sweet sight, and he climbed on the bed and over his side to get to Paul. Creature let out a small, complaining sound as John reached out and lifted her up, moving her down towards Paul’s lap.

“You’ll get back soon,” he said in a hushed voice. “Just hang on—”

He put his hand on Paul’s forehead, his mouth twisting in displeasure. The lad was burning up — and now that John thought about it, hadn’t Paul been slightly subdued during the evening? He had seemed slightly more tired than usually, but not to the extent that John would’ve thought about him being ill.

“Love,” he said, and almost grimaced at how disgustingly sappy his voice sounded. He cleared his throat, blinked a few times to get himself a bit more awake, and softly shook Paul’s shoulder. “Paul, wake up.”

Paul seemed to take a while to register that someone had spoken to him, but slowly he started coming back to the world. He took a deep breath, and his expression, although his eyes were still closed, looked surprised with his eyebrows raising slowly, as little by little he started taking in the overall feeling in his body.

Looking either like a dramatically fainted heroine coming back to her senses, or a drunk sailor doing the same, Paul’s eyelids started fluttering, and he slowly opened his eyes, letting out a small, confused sound.

“Wahzzahmmesit,” he slurred, and John snickered.

“Half past four,” he said, and Paul looked so terribly confused that John pitied him. He himself had been, too.

“You got fever,” he then said and leaned back to snatch the towel. “And an awful cough. I thought to bring you water.”

“Hngh,” Paul said as John pressed the towel against his forehead, and then let out a soft sigh at the cool feeling. John smiled, glad that he could get at least some sort of a recompense for being such a good boyfriend. Just hearing that small, thankful sound made his stomach do flips, which in turn spurred him on more.

“Next up, water,” he said, and okay, now he was just _milking_ for Paul’s gratefulness. He quickly got the glass and then helped Paul into a half-sitting position, keeping his boyfriend and eternal love upright with an arm on his back, muscles complaining at the man’s weight.

Paul let out a tiny moan at the water running down his throat, and John leaned in to press a quick peck on his temple.

“I can send a message to Jeff that I’m not coming,” he said quietly, and Paul glanced at him before rolling his eyes.

“I’m not _dying,_ or a kid. It’s just a flu,” he said and coughed a deadly sounding cough right after, looking as pitiful as a small, hungry child.

“Um,” John said (really just wanting a lie-in, and this was the perfect excuse), “you sound like you’re dying?”

“You can send a message to _my_ boss,” Paul rasped, his eyelids looking heavy. John opted for making him drink the rest of the water, and then lay him back on the bed, putting the damp, cool towel back on Paul’s forehead.

“Sorry for waking you up,” he said. “But I couldn’t sleep with all the noise you were making.”

Paul chuckled at that, the sound tired and hoarse. John smiled in return, and put the glass back on the bedside table.

“Think you can sleep again?” Paul asked, his voice becoming a small mumble. His eyes had fallen closed, and John turned to switch off the light before he snuggled under the covers and closer to Paul, his right arm splaying over Paul’s stomach naturally.

“I think I’ll manage,” John grinned into Paul’s ear, flicking his tongue against it and emitting a drunken-sounding, muffled giggle from Paul.

“Good,” he slurred. “I’d hate to ruin your prettiest beautiful beauty sleep.”

“I love how you acknowledge that from the two of us, I’m prettier,” John said, pulling Paul closer, and even though it had been a cheap joke Paul laughed, the sound rather low-key. John smiled softly, feeling like his mission had been accomplished — laughter from Paul was _always_ an accomplished mission. Now the lad was falling back asleep faster than George could say “banana terracotta pie” three times in a row (he couldn’t — his slurry scouse just didn’t keep up).

At that point, Creature crawled back up and snuggled next to Paul’s head on the other side of his pillow, and with a deep, content sigh Paul was back in his dreams, and John was left listening to his slightly uneven, wheezing breathing.

***~**~***

The morning — the _actual_ morning wasn’t as much roses and fluff as it was snot and coughing. It seemed that Paul’s state had gone worse during the few hours that he had slept, and John regretted dearly that he had to leave for work and let Paul handle the illness on his own. He had also remembered that a mushroom network wasn't called that, but a mushroom mycelium instead… go figure. Otherwise than that, John really wanted to forget his nightly adventure, since it hadn’t done any good for him, nor had it improved Paul’s state.

George and Ringo had taken one look at the lad, and were suddenly in a hurry to wash their hands —but they didn’t try to avoid him, which would have been kinda impossible as well, given the size of their flat. So at breakfast could be seen three cautious, sneeze-avoiding men, and one miserable sneezer.

“Can you pass me the sugar?” George asked Paul, and Paul sneezed, glancing at Ringo miserably. Ringo passed the sugar to George with a bat of his eyelashes, and George growled at him playfully. Paul snuggled deeper into the blanket he had wrapped around himself, and John felt himself tearing apart at the sight.

“Maybe I could do just a half of the day,” he suggested, and Paul shot him a glance that said _“don’t you even think about it.”_

“I’ll be fine,” he said, voice almost gone by now. He had woken up flaming hot, and even though John had cracked a few lame jokes about that (“you’re so hot it would melt the One Ring”, _“burn, baby, burn, du-du-du-dun”_ and “I thought you were hot before, but now you’re just flaming, baby”), the morning had altogether been slightly depressing for all of them. A small flu was nothing, but Paul seemed to have caught the Mother of Flus - he had straight up levelled to having 39°C of fever, his throat was hurting and nose was running, and there was a constant cough that John could hear was down in his lungs.

All in all, John was suffering like hell, and wanted nothing more than to pamper Paul all day, battle this boss fight against the Mother of Flus (level 200), _not_ go to work to just loiter about on his phone, making sure that Paul didn’t _die_ while John wasn’t watching after him.

It would totally ruin his _Plans._

John shot Paul a suspicious glance, and Ringo, too, lifted an unbelieving eyebrow at the lad’s words. Paul huffed, sneezed, and rolled his eyes.

“Seriously, we don’t have money to put up some sorta funeral for me,” he said, his voice fizzling and dying away when the end of the sentence rolled along. John and Ringo glanced at each other, while George was going through the photos in his phone with a satisfied expression — John didn’t dare to glance that way, so he couldn’t say _what_ kind of photos they were.

“I guess we’re just gonna have to dump your body into the Thames,” John said mournfully. He would have to set up a flower arrangement under the London Eye, and there would no doubt circulate some rumours afterwards about a girl who had owned a flower shop and had fallen from the Eye in a freak accident, died, and haunted the place by setting up expensive flower arrangements as a revenge to all those who were allergic to flowers.

“Paul, you’re not allergic to flowers?” John asked absent-mindedly. Paul stared at him for a while, and then slowly shook his head, sneezing.

 _‘No,’_ his lips said, but there was no voice, and John concluded that it had left the man for good now. Hmm. Pity. He quite liked Paul’s voice.

“Anyone want more tea?” George asked, the tea pot in his hand, holding it above his mug to pour out the rest of it. John glanced down at his own mug which was still full, the tea probably cold now, too. He had been too occupied trying to will Paul back to life with his unyielding stare to really pay attention to his breakfast.

“No, I think I’m fine,” Ringo said and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “I gotta get going.”

“Aw,” George looked miserable. “You’re gonna leave me all alone with Paul.”

And at that point, both John and Paul came to the realisation that it was, indeed, a free day for George.

Ten minutes later, Ringo dragged John forcefully out of the door, and George waved goodbye to them with a cheerful “I’ll take care of him!” while Paul’s hopeless sneezes echoed in the stairs.

“He’s gonna die,” John said desperately to Ringo outside the house, and Ringo rolled his eyes before pushing John head first inside the car, promising to drive him all the way to the shop, so that he would _definitely_ make it to work.

***~**~***

“It’s just like the old times!” George exclaimed and threw himself on the couch. Paul glared at him scornfully from where he had nestled against the couch’s armrest, wrapped up into a blanket, and switched on the television, trying to ignore the other man. It wasn’t very easy though, with George persistently nudging at him with his toe. The lad was slouching sideways on the couch, his laptop balanced dangerously on top of his knees, and a tea mug on the coffee table. It seemed like he was well-prepared for some hardcore writing, and Paul hated him for that; he himself would’ve been more than happy to join in with the writing session, but couldn’t for the life of him think of anything to write.

Besides, there was always a danger that he would sneeze without managing to get a handkerchief on the way, and it, how do you say, would… _snot_ be very funny, so to speak.

“Very much,” he said, voice muffled with the damn mucus filling his nose and throat, but still managing to sound admirably bitchy. Paul gave himself a mental pat on the back and started shuffling through the channels, trying to find something that wasn’t a shopping TV. Thursday morning at 8am wasn’t the best time to be watching television. (…And why was he awake anyway? He could be sleeping right now!)

“I was thinking of doing a quick fic to cheer you up,” George said with a joyful voice, and Paul’s thought process stopped right there and then.

He turned his head towards George painfully slowly, somehow feeling that not only his nose was full of unnecessary slimy stuff, but so was suddenly his brain.

“Why… would a fic… cheer me up,” he said, his voice sounding like it was already coming from the grave (or the Thames). George smiled at him blindingly.

“Why, ‘cos you like reading ‘em?” he said, and Paul let out a small, hitch-pitched sound that disappeared somewhere into the atmosphere.

“So,” George continued without a care in the world, fixing the laptop’s position slightly, “maybe we could collaborate! You tell me what you wanna read, and I write it! It’ll make you feel a _lot_ better, and what’s better than reading a story _you_ commissioned?”

Paul, not sure what to say, opted for sneezing casually. George offered him a scrunched-up handkerchief.

“Only used once,” he said with the most innocent voice, and Paul threw the paper ball back at him with a disgusted look. Right, only used once… but for _what??_

He reached for a pack of handkerchiefs he had lying around (he had about twenty of them stashed between him and the couch’s armrest) and blew his nose, not sure if it helped at all. Cold tremors were going through him almost constantly, and he was sure that the fever was still going up - there was a heavy pounding behind his eyes, and the world seemed hazier with every passing minute.

“I should probably check yer fever,” George’s voice came from somewhere far away, and a cold hand pressed against his forehead.

“Okay, blimey, John wasn’t jokin’ about it,” the lad said, business-like, and skipped out of the living room, humming to himself. Paul wanted to argue that John _had_ been joking about it — singing _Disco Inferno_ had just been bad enough —  but in the end, he opted for saying nothing, since it would’ve probably spurred George on to make similar jokes on his own.

George soon came back with Paul’s favourite tea mug _(_ _“I LIKE MY TEA LIKE I LIKE MY MEN - HOT AND BRITISH”)_ and pushed it into Paul’s hands. Paul had no time to say thanks before the lad spoke again with a weirdly soft voice, his fingers lingering on Paul’s arms in a way that was almost loving.

“Would ye like getting married?” he asked, and Paul blinked at him, not sure what George meant. _Married—_

“To _you?_ _”_ he said with a bewildered voice, sneezed, and George started laughing. There was a glint in his eye that Paul, not even in his fevered state, didn’t trust.

“To John - in the fic! Could be some very fluffy readin’,” the lad chortled, settling back on the couch. Paul glared at him, mouth set into a stubborn line.

“I don’t care. I don’t read fics. Definitely not about _myself and John,_ o-or d-definitely about getting m-m- _married,_ _”_ he stuttered, and made a mental note to go and read that fic later. Fluff and John — now that was a combination Paul couldn’t really resist, even when he tried his best — _even when it was written by George._

George looked at him with a sly glint in his eye and a wicked smile on his lips, nodding along.

“Yes, yes, I’m sure. But hypothetically, would you propose, or John?”

Paul opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

_Who would propose, him, or John?_

But that… _that_ would mean _MARRIAGE._

(Paul’s mind screamed “aaah” very loudly.)

“Aaah,” he said, quieter than in his thoughts, staring at George. Aah.

“That would mean marriage,” he said feebly, and sneezed from the shock that saying it out loud caused. George hid from the oncoming phlegm storm by lifting his laptop in front of his face, and Paul could hear him chuckling.

“Indeed. Now, who would go on one knee? My money’s on John, really.”

Paul blew his nose again, and then thought that from the two of them, it _would_ probably be John, because Paul just wouldn’t want to do that to John — suggest something like marriage if he wasn’t sure his boyfriend was in it for the long run. It seemed so at the moment, but then again, they had only been together for a year and a half, and it wasn’t enough to tell if they wanted to spend the rest of their lives together…

…Or, well, Paul would be completely fine with that, really, and knew that he would break completely if _The Rest Of Their Lives Together_ didn’t come to pass, because right now it felt like he needed John to _live,_ but John… he _had_ stopped loving Cynthia, and Paul _knew_ that once upon a time the two of them _had_ been as ugly and sappy together as Paul and John were now, and that it had worn off after two years or so.

A part of him wanted to think (rather selfishly) that John loved Paul more than he had ever loved Cynthia, or anyone else, ever, because Paul loved John more than he had ever loved anyone ever. But Paul wasn’t going to be the one to go down on the knee, because a) it would be just _Gay,_ and moreover b) he wanted to give John that choice — John could do it when he was ready, when he was sure that he would never leave Paul, and until that moment Paul couldn’t do much else but wait.

Not that he was in a _hurry_ to get married, not really, but his dad had started to send some _real_ suggestive messages after the New Year’s party, messages like “what do you think about this suit” with a link to a site full of expensive wedding suits, and “do you think any of these is good” with a link to articles like _“Best wedding wines under 20£”._ Paul had asked his mum why Jim was doing that, and from that on his _mum_ had started doing the same, and Paul was _so betrayed._

So, okay, he _had_ been thinking about marriage, alright? But it just wasn’t _possible_ for him to suggest anything like that, because he didn’t want to have his heart broken in that way — and he didn’t want to make John feel like the man was forced to marry him or something, out of pity, _or_ of the feeling that he couldn’t decline when Paul asked so nicely, down on his knee and all. With the pace they had moved so far, it would probably take about five years to even get engaged, Paul was sure about that, and that wasn’t even granted at all, because why would John want to get married anyway? He didn’t seem the type to do that. And there was _always_ the chance that he would get bored with Paul after three years or so.

Paul felt miserable and afraid at the concept and he sneezed, blew his nose _again,_ and as he did that he thought some more.

And he thought that _George_ had brought up the idea of marriage, _now,_ and said that it would be John who proposed.

And he thought that George seemed to always have some sort of extra knowledge of what went on in their household.

He dropped the tea mug into his lap, and didn’t half register George’s alarmed call as he thought, _George is talking about marriage, and about John proposing._

_Christ._

***~**~***

****

“So,” George said, tapping his fingers against the keyboard as the situation had calmed down, the phone back in Paul’s weak hands, George back in his Writing Position™. “How does John saying ‘I want to marry you more than I want to make amends with Mimi’ sound like?”

“Not very probable,” Paul muttered, a new tea mug in his hands, clothes changed, a new blanket around him. Managing to change his clothes had been a project, especially since he had kindly declined George’s willingly helpful hands by closing the man forcefully outside the bedroom, and that had taken its toll on him. He was now completely out of energy, and completely out of strength to fight the likes of George. The least exhausting way to deal with the lad was to roll with it. Probably. “Don’t think him making amends with her is anywhere soon… at least it’s further than any hypothetical proposal.”

(Really, Paul had just given up trying to act like he didn’t read fics, or knew nothing about them, or didn’t care at all what George was going to write about the Fluffy Proposal (name was under work))

“What would he say then?”

“I don’t know. Why would he say anything? Isn’t it enough that he—” Paul waved his hand in the air vaguely, eyes glazed over, “—kneels in front of me.”

“Of course not. There needs to be some sorta dialogue,” George said, a frown on his forehead. He was deeply buried into the text he was working on, and Paul thought sadly about John being busy. He missed John. Loved him so much. Wouldn’t have minded marrying him. George was right — John could damn well propose already.

Oh God — he had just thought like that, hadn’t he?

“I think my fever’s going up,” he mumbled. “I just thought you were right.”

George looked at him with a delighted expression.

“I mean, of course I am—” he started, but Paul scoffed and closed his eyes, effectively blocking the man out. His head was pounding terribly, and Paul was sure he was dying slowly. Not that he was going to tell that to John, because it would be just embarrassing that everyone else was right today, apart from Paul.

Creature, too, had been right during the night, and the cat really was more intelligent than everyone thought… Right now, too, she was probably somewhere scheming and meowing her way to the top of the household, and Paul would have to crawl in front of her tiny, fur-covered feet like a worm, and then there would be no marriage, because John was Creature’s slave for all eternity, and there would be no escaping, only cat mint and tuna all day long, and _God,_ Paul hated tuna, and he would have to say goodbye to John, because John was to be the All Powerful Slave, and Paul was just a pawn, and he was meant to become Creature’s first meal as she ruled the world… Goodbye John… It had been all fun and games before his cat became the leader of the new universe—

“Paul—!”

The tea mug toppled over again as Paul fell asleep, and was already too far away to hear George cursing.

***~**~***

“Okay,” Jeff said, as slowly as possible, going through the cashier like a snail. “This… was… a… good… day…” He turned his head towards Stuart, resembling a sloth. “Wasn’t… it… Stuu-aaart…?”

“…Yes…” Stuart drawled from where he was wiping the floor with painfully slow strokes. “…Just… excellent…”

“Guyyyss,” John groaned and wrung his hands, sitting on a bar stool behind the cashier, following with dread as Jeff counted every pound with an excruciatingly unhurried pace. “Are we _finished??_ _”_

“No…” Jeff said, and held a dramatic pause. “There… are… still… products… to…”

“Put on shelves, okay, I _get it,_ can I _go do that—_ _”_

“I… need… you… to… check… if… I’m… counting… right…”

“For fuck’s sake!” John exclaimed, grabbing his head with both of his hands. “Get _on_ with it then!!”

“Sounds… like… you’re… in… a… hurry…” Jeff said, and John pushed himself away from the barstool, deciding that being an independent, initiative worker was a good thing. Ever since the last customer had left and the sign on the door had been turned, John had been jumping up and down, just trying to rush back home as soon as possible — but _no._ Jeff and Stuart had got a whiff of his mindset, and were doing their _damnest_ to keep John there as long as possible. John was tired, and stressed, and worried, and _just wanted home to his more or less dying boyfriend._

“Neither of you have someone waiting for you home, you miserable, lonely fucks,” he groaned and marched over to where the boxes were waiting, containing fish tape and crimp tools.

“I could fire you for speaking like that,” Jeff said, abandoning his slow speech (thank God). John carried the cardboard boxes over to the correct shelves, rolling his eyes as he went past his boss. “Also for reminding me that I am a miserable, lonely fuck,” Jeff continued, muttering to himself darkly.

“As if,” John said, and Stuart chuckled, speeding up his sweeping. Jeff, too, laughed, nodding as he counted the money, and then looked up cheerfully.

“See, the moment you left my side, I forgot where I was. Gotta start over.”

John groaned, and pressed his head against a shelf full of measuring tapes, his face digging deep between them. Maybe if he just… became one with the shelf, and then just… died.

Paul would still be left alone at home, with _George,_ so John couldn’t really do that.

He tore the first box open, and started putting the fish tapes on the proper slots. Fortunately he knew where everything belonged automatically — that way he could close the outer world off and just concentrate on his work, without having to mind his co-workers. Right bastards, they were. Ugh. It was good that the weekend was coming—

_The weekend._

John dropped the fish tape he had in his hand and groaned, pressing both hands against his eyes. Oh God, the _weekend!!_ How had he _forgotten_ all about that—

They had meant to go to _Liverpool,_ had been planning it for _ages_ _…_ and John had meant to talk about his _Plans_ in secret to Mary and Jim, and Paul had wanted to discuss his personal plans about becoming a freelancer, maybe, and what would happen to John’s _Plans_ now?? Those were the most important thing, and he _needed_ to talk about them _now,_ ‘cos it was already April _—_

“Is everything alright?” Stuart asked, his voice still amused. John sighed and lowered his hands, shaking his head slowly.

“Paul’s dying and I wanted to see his parents next weekend,” he said, and heard Stuart walking closer.

  _“You_ wanna see Paul’s parents,” Stuart deadpanned, completely ignoring that Paul was dying. John shrugged, without looking back at him.

“They’re amazing,” he said, voice nearing a worshipping tone. Stuart chuckled, stopping to stand behind John. John rubbed his forehead with two fingers, the whole concept of _not sleeping last night_ affecting him more than he wanted to admit.

“Anyway, that would be in Liverpool, wouldn’t it? I’m going there tomorrow, gonna see _my_ folks’n all,” Stuart said, and John glanced over his shoulder, meeting the man’s sunglass-covered eyes. “You could come with me, if Paul can’t.”

“I _can_ _’t_ go see Paul’s parents without him there...! How would that look like?” John muttered, picking up the dropped fish tape and put it where it belonged, starting to put the products up again. Stuart crouched next to him, his hands automatically going for the tapes that still resided inside the boxes.

“Like you’re their son-in-law,” Stuart said, and arched an eyebrow. John shuddered — not at the concept of marrying Paul, heavens, no, but because it reminded him of his _Plans._

“Mary’s son-in-law,” he sighed dreamily, and both Stuart and Jeff started laughing, knowing very well about John’s unhealthy obsession of being in Mary’s good grades.

“Well, just in case you’re interested, I’m taking the train up there tomorrow evening,” Stuart said. “How were you planning on going?”

“Same plan… although ours contained taking Ringo’s car and driving straight into the sunset romantically.”

“Yeah… I’m not doin’ that with you. Sorry.”

John made a face and grabbed the final tapes from the cardboard box.

“Coward,” he said, clicking his tongue. “Well, I don’t really know… but I’ll talk with Paul today… if he’s in the condition to talk.”

Stuart looked slightly concerned. Somehow he seemed to wear that expression quite often when John was around.

John prayed that he could just _get home._

***~**~***

He couldn’t fucking _believe_ it.

Okay, John _knew_ he was forgetful — and he knew that Jeff was even worse than him, but _really_ — for them _both_ to forget about sending one _super_ important paper to a supplier, signed and everything. How in the bloody hell was the shop still standing? How had Jeff even managed to _put it up??_ John felt personally insulted by the gods for them making something like that possible.

While quickly going through the papers in the backroom, this particular contract had hit his eye, as well as the deadline — _which was today._ Jeff had already left, somehow managing to slither out of the shop before John (what a great fucking owner), and Stuart was on his way out, carrying the rubbish out at the same time, and John was standing in the middle of the room, not believing his eyes.

John stared at the paper, his mind feeling numb. This couldn’t really be real, could it? Christ, if the document wasn’t returned today, they might lose one of their most important suppliers — it was just some legal shit and stuff, but it was the _most important paper,_ and Jeff’s business wasn’t really big enough to survive losing this sort of a good — no, _great_ — deal they had managed to get; this paper had to be there _today._

John quickly dialled the supplier, heart beating in his throat. A bright woman’s voice answered with a cheerful hello, and it took about three minutes for John to explain the situation and to get a response — _yes,_ the document had to be there today, but _“you had a chance, dear, the office closes at 8pm, so you can still make it in time, sweetie”._

So, he packed his bag, cursing Jeff on the way (and himself for not checking this earlier), knowing that he wouldn’t be home before 9pm — the office just bloody _happened_ to be a few houses away from the Westminster Abbey, which was _miles_ away. Literally.

He rushed towards the bus stop that was on the other side of the road, and managed to get into the right bus just in time. Thankfully the public transport usually worked well, if one didn’t live as far from the centre as they did — but unfortunately Jeff’s shop wasn’t situated near any underground lines, which made getting there in the morning a bit nifty at times. Now, to go to the centre, John had to take the bus to the nearest underground station, and from there the trains went every ten minutes or so…

He sat at the back of the two-decked bus, having decided that that was the safest place in the dangerously fast-tilting vehicle. There was just something in London bus drivers that made you think about your upcoming funeral. He contemplated calling Paul to inform about this bullshit happening, but if Paul didn’t have a voice… And John felt so pissed off that he might just end up snapping to Paul about something unimportant, which was something he wouldn’t do even if his life depended on it, because John was _well_ past snapping your significant other. A fat lot of good it had done to him with Cyn, and he wasn’t going to lose Paul over _any_ stupid argument.

Not really something he would’ve thought of a few years earlier, but Paul had changed him — for the good, John hoped, and not just a lot more gay.

In the end he just sent a text, and received a sad emoji in a few minutes. Paul didn’t seem to be texting any more than that, and John didn’t have much to say anyway — he just sent one sappy meme to the man, and then, deciding to use the remaining 9 minutes of his bus ride well, he opened his internet browser and continued at where he had left off… with his _Plans._

One hour later, John stepped out of the office, his bag one paper lighter, frustration boiling in his stomach.

It had taken him _45 minutes_ to get there, and then _10 minutes_ of waiting in different hallways, and _five — just five —_ minutes of chatting with a cheerful, young woman who was Single and Did John Have A Phone Number? while she checked that everything was in order. And everything was of course in order, and after John had assured the young, Single woman who Got Off In Ten that he was in a happy relationship, he had fled the building and managed to get down in half the time than it had taken him to get up.

He felt like sinning, because the world — or Jeff — couldn’t _do_ this to him. There was a Starbucks right next to the office, and John went to get himself a sinful chai tea latte as a takeaway before starting to head for the underground. Checking the timetables from his phone, he came to the conclusion that it was just as he had thought — he’d be home in an hour, and he felt like falling flat on his face. Ugh.

He missed Paul, and went on to send another sappy meme to him just to remember that there was someone out there that John loved _THIS MUCH,_ and who was waiting for John right now, and that John just had to _get there._

He stood in front of the Westminster Station, sipping at his tea/latte, the Big Ben hovering majestically behind him. It was already dark, and John turned to look at the most recognisable landmark in London. They didn’t really come here that often, really, because they lived so far away from the centre. John would’ve liked to live closer, as he had before the breakup with Cynthia, but, well… George and Paul had got their flat because it was _cheap,_ at least when it came to London’s prices…

There was still 15 minutes left before the next train left, and with an absent mind, John walked on the bridge to take a good look at the Westminster Abbey. The rather cold wind hit his face as he got on top of the water, keeping his eyes on the London Eye, avoiding tourists who swarmed the bridge even at this time of the evening. Usually John was fine with them, since they didn’t bother his everyday life much, but when he and Paul had shared their first New Year’s kiss on this bridge a little over a year back, the place had been so full of people that John was surprised no one had been pushed over the railing. He was certainly glad that that wasn’t the case now, as he could make his way to the centre of the bridge easily, before he turned to look back.

It was quite the amazing sight, there was no denying that. It was no wonder that this particular building attracted people from all over the world, and placing the London Eye on the other side of the river was just genius, regarding the entrance fees… John had been up there once, and his bank account was still trying to recover from that.

He leaned on the railing with his elbow, slurping on his drink, keeping an eye on the clock — at least he wouldn’t be able to miss the time, now. Every minute that passed was one minute closer to seeing Paul again, and John wasn’t sure whether this sort of an obsession was a good thing or not — but as long as he was happy, and no one got hurt, was there anything to complain about? Paul certainly didn’t seem to mind John’s obsessive trait at all, and even seemed to be pulling it out of him, enjoying the knowledge that John loved him, and would ever love only him… At least John hoped that Paul knew that. He must have, right? John said it enough, didn’t he?

He would say it again tonight, just to make sure that Paul knew.

Sighing and turning his body around, he leaned both of his elbows on the railing, looking down into the black water. He needed to figure out what to do with their Liverpool trip… because, if he was being entirely truthful… John had wanted to go without Paul in the first place.

Maybe this was meant to be. Maybe this was John’s _chance_ to go to Liverpool without Paul. Maybe… It would make things a lot easier, anyhow.

He would just have to talk with Paul, come up with good enough reasons to not postpone the trip, and then catch the train with Stuart — even though it would cost about _50 pounds_ for a _one-way trip_.

John swallowed at the thought, and groaned. He didn’t have to take the train up there that often, but _God, 50 pounds._ He might as well hitchhike his way to Liverpool, get robbed on the side, and he would still lose less money than by taking the train — mainly because most of the time, he never carried any cash with him.

_And he needed to come back, too!_

He groaned and slurped some more of his chai tea latte, hoping it would soothe the quickly opening wound called _“I am not eating for the rest of the month”._ John didn’t have many serious scars, only a few from his childhood shenanigans, one from falling down the stairs a few years back, and then this one which was, unfortunately, a very persistent wound and never had a chance to heal properly.

What about Ringo’s car? He would have to ask about that. It hadn’t been clear whether Ringo wanted to lend it to them, or keep it for some adventurous weekend sex with George. And if there was such a thing coming, John knew that he was _not_ going to get that car. Damn it, Ringo.

His old, loyal Nokia phone let out a loud screech which one upon a time had been acceptable as a message sound. A few people around him jumped and looked around with alarmed expressions before relaxing, the sound waking up some deep fond memories that showed as a few nostalgic sniffs — or then it was the wind, but John preferred to think that the world revolved around old Nokia phones and the fact that everybody missed using them, one way or another.

He lifted the phone in front of him, his right hand holding the latte, and opened a text message from Jeff.

John let out a deep, deep sigh.

 _‘I took care of it,’_ he wrote with a bit of a sloppy touch, with him holding the phone with his left hand and all, and sent the message, somehow feeling even more pissed off than before. He waited for Jeff’s response, something which he thought would be in the lines of a cheerful thanks, or maybe even “I owe you one!” which would be something of a miracle… But even Jeff would have to admit that he had screwed up this time, and had John not been there, he would be in serious trouble. How ironic, that on the day that John had been so very anxious to get home, he had been the one to stay behind for the paperwork.

 _‘In your face, Jeff,’_ he thought with small satisfaction. Jeff better be _grateful._

But John never got to know what Jeff responded.

Somebody bumped into him from behind, first speaking in a language John didn’t recognise, before exclaiming _sorry_ very loudly and continuing on their way, ooh-ing and aah-ing at the Big Ben.

John, however, never heard any of it.

He was too busy watching his Nokia fall towards the murky waters, the screen still lit, its green tint flashing against the blackness of the Thames, before there was the tiniest splash heard to the mankind… and John’s phone was gone, swallowed by the river.

_Gone._

***~**~***

Whatever Paul had anticipated for the evening, it certainly hadn’t been comforting your mourning boyfriend between sneezing and coughing. John seemed to be in some sort of a shock, having arrived home with the face of someone who had seen somebody die. Even George had been worried for a moment before hearing what it was all about — after which he had had to excuse himself, scrambling into his bedroom to chortle in a way that resembled screaming. God knew Paul wanted to do the same, because it _was_ slightly hilarious, but he wasn’t that kind of a boyfriend.

So, he buckled up and set to comforting John, who seemed to have a hard time coming to terms with the unfortunate happening.

“I just had it in my hand,” he said in a lost voice. Paul sneezed and petted his hair, John lying on the sofa with his head in Paul’s blanket-covered lap, staring at the ceiling with empty eyes. He lifted his left hand as if to emphasise his words, grasping the ghost of his phone desperately. “Just there — and then it was _gone—_ _”_

“So what _happened?_ _”_ Ringo asked, having just come home from the grocery store. John shot him a hopeless look.

“A tourist bumped into him,” Paul said with his voice muffled by his mucus-filled nose. “He lost the grip, apparently.”

“I just _had it_ in my—”

“Ugh, tourists,” Ringo said, looking at John’s armchair, contemplating whether to sit in it or not. Usually the others avoided sitting in it, even when John wasn’t home — mainly because Creature liked to take over anyone’s lap who was in that particular chair, and for the unfortunate, chosen person that meant becoming minced meat. John’s thighs had long ago grown accustomed to it — the others not so.

“—in my _hand—_ _”_

“What was he doing up there anyway?” Ringo turned towards Paul, Creature already sneaking closer with a flash in her eyes. Ringo compromised and sat on the ground, and the cat jumped into the armchair with a disappointed meow.

“He was —excuse me—” Paul sneezed, “—paperwork. For Jeff.”

_“—Gone—”_

“Mmh,” Ringo nodded, looking at John with sad, sympathising eyes. Paul, however, could see deep amusement in them, and they shared a look between them that John in his traumatised state didn’t notice.

“I can’t _believe_ it,” John said in a miserable voice, and Paul almost congratulated him for managing to say a completely new phrase. He had started to think John would rather spend the rest of his life as a broken record.

“Well,” Paul said, trying to sound commiserating, “it had a good life. Try to think of the positive aspects.”

“What are those?” Ringo asked, sounding honestly intrigued. Paul opened and closed his mouth for a few times before sneezing.

“Um,” he then said, and there was this _real_ uncomfortable feeling in his nose — he sneezed again, “…er…”

“Well, regarding the morning’s discussion, if you had to dump one of your belongings into the Thames, I do prefer your phone over Paul’s body,” Ringo said in a voice that sounded extremely justifying. Paul scoffed.

“I’m not one of his belongings—” he started, but snapped his mouth shut when Ringo gave him the Look. Okay, okay. He was. Or would be, if John just _proposed_ to him.

Wait, where had that thought come from? Shit, Paul was moving in deep waters.

 _‘Not as deep as his phone,’_ he thought, and then couldn’t stop his lips from curling up into a small smile. He tried hiding it, knowing it wasn’t appropriate with John grieving like this, but—

 _“GUYS!! YOU CAN STILL LEAVE A VOICE MESSAGE!!”_ George yelled from his bedroom, and Paul and Ringo lost it. Fortunately, though, for Paul it only became a hell of a coughing fit, masquerading his laughter. It did momentarily make him fear that he would be forced to leave John, too, when the coughing didn’t cease, and he was hardly getting any breath.

Losing two loved ones in one evening would surely be too hard of a blow. Besides, Ringo was right — from the two of them, Paul sure preferred having the Nokia in the bottom of the Thames than himself.

***~**~***

Sometimes, Paul thought, you just had to let those you loved go. Had he said this to anyone aloud at this particular time, everyone would’ve thought it was about John’s not-so-deceased Nokia phone, which, despite having become one with the Thames, still worked. You could call into it, which George discovered in a mad moment of self-amusement, and you could still leave a voice message… That fun would probably end when the phone’s battery ran out, which would be, um, in about a week or so.

No, Paul was not talking about that. He was talking about the fact that John was going to Liverpool without him — something he hadn’t thought would _ever_ come to pass. But John was, indeed, going alone, even so that he had no time to come home from work, since he and Stuart had to catch the train. John had brought the subject up before they had gone to sleep, after he had somewhat recovered from losing his Nokia, and Paul hadn’t seen a reason as to why John would stay in London; Mary and Jim were waiting for them anyway, and even though being ill and without a boyfriend was a drag, Paul could do it. He much preferred John out of his sneezing range, really, because John and a flu never walked hand in hand. This way Paul had the perfect opportunity to _heal_ himself, and then celebrate John coming back with mad sex. Yes. That sounded good.

The morning had been for the goodbyes, and John had laid in bed for extra five minutes, an arm over Paul’s chest, breathing against his neck. Paul had to admit that John being reluctant to leave made him feel better about the whole thing — the man wasn’t quite ready to abandon him like a rag. Not that Paul would’ve thought he would, but… was it usual for boyfriends to visit your parents on their own? But John had been vouching for this trip for so long… Paul didn’t dare to take that away from him, and he had to admit that it was good Stuart was going too, keeping John at bay. Who knew what would go on if John was to go on nightclubs all on his own — how fast would he forget Paul’s existence?

With George and Ringo working, Paul had the whole house to himself. He felt somewhat weird, hanging about with Creature all by himself, knowing that John wasn’t coming home in the evening — and then he realised that this was the first time they spent the night apart from each other, ever since they started dating.

_Wow._

_‘We’ve lived in the same flat since the beginning. There hasn’t been a reason to be apart,’_ Paul thought hazily, waving Creature’s favourite toy — a green feather — in the air in front of her, staring at the cat with slightly blurred eyes. His fever had gone down _slightly,_ allowing him to think more or less properly.

He had to admit that the whole thought of sleeping alone sounded scary. He had become so accustomed to John breathing next to him that going to sleep without him would probably be impossible. But at least Paul had John’s pillow that he would hug during the night, whereas John would sleep in a lifeless Ikea bed all on his own.

 _‘What if he doesn’t mind being without me?’_ Paul wondered, not sure where his sudden doubts about their love had come from. He had no reason to do that, and John had spent the majority of the evening muttering sappy things to Paul, whom he had thought only half-conscious in his fevered state.

But… didn’t couples usually spend a lot of time apart, to get a small pause of the other? And John and Paul had already been living like a married couple since the beginning, without any distance between them… What if it was becoming _too_ much for John?

God, though, there it was again, that word… _Married._ Paul must have started thinking about that word too much, raising up high hopes for something that wasn’t going to happen in a while, if at all. Maybe that was why… Maybe, since Paul was ready for a proposal (Christ, he was _so_ ready — _SO READY!!),_ he had started thinking that since John didn’t seem to be, he must not love Paul enough yet. And what if he never would? Relationships, after all, tended to result either in a marriage or a break-up.

What if… what if John was getting enough of Paul, and went to Liverpool to test that thought?

 _‘Stop it,’_ he told himself as Creature jumped against the blanket, which fortunately saved Paul from subjecting to a very slow and painful death. The cat meowed and jumped into the air, trying to catch the feather, but Paul was faster. He was starting to get as good at this as John had been when they first met.

Paul thought back at that time, smiling to himself. They had been smitten with each other right from the start, hadn’t they? He wasn’t sure whether he had to thank George for noticing that, or curse the man into the deepest pits of hell, but… granted, if John and Paul ever ended up marrying each other, Paul was probably gonna have to kiss George as a thanks, because spending the rest of his live with John was all Paul _ever_ wanted… and escaping from a marriage was a tad harder than just leaving a regular relationship. Maybe. At least then, if John wanted a divorce, Paul had time to seduce him before the documents were signed.

Hopefully it would never come to that, though. Paul just had to make sure that John loved him, unconditionally and fiercely, just as Paul loved him. Paul felt like this feeling was endless — the slow burning that seemed to consume his heart whenever he looked at the man. He wondered whether John felt the same, or was it more like some sort of regular love for him… because Paul knew how that felt, too. He’d had girlfriends, and Jane was a prime example of someone he had loved with all his heart, but not to _this_ extent; not so much that Paul was literally willing to be wholly consumed by John (and not in a dirty way), not wanting anything else but to be _one_ with him. The closest they got to that was during sex, and especially during an anal intercourse, which had quickly become Paul’s favourite manner of spending time with John. John didn’t seem to mind, either.

He wondered whether John would miss him, or would he feel somehow… _free_ during this weekend. What if he realised that this freedom was what he wanted? What if he realised, going to a bar without Paul or George or Ringo watching him like a hawk, that he really, only wanted a woman? That wasn’t very likely, not with the amount of sappy gay memes Paul received almost constantly, but… you never knew? And women were _always_ swarming around John like a bunch of sharks smelling an injured fish. Paul had to beat them off with sticks and beer glasses or George, whatever he got into his hands first, and it didn’t make it any easier that he, himself, had his _own_ herd of girls trying to make their way into his heart.

John didn’t like it though, being surrounded by girls like that — he always complained and moaned about that, and more often than not ended up dragging Paul into a private corner for a snog… if Paul didn’t get there first. But… now, with Paul not there to distract him, and the inevitable army of blood-thirsty women covering him from head to toe…

Paul shook his head slowly, a part of him knowing that he was being stupid and over-dramatic (again). But he couldn’t help the thoughts from invading his mind, and he knew that he had at least a _small_ reason to be afraid — because John… John _had left Cynthia._

Funny how all of Paul’s fears seemed to culminate into that one, tiny thought.

***~**~***

John wanted home to Paul. _Moreover,_ he wanted home to Paul with his _Nokia_ by his side. He still couldn’t believe he had gone and dropped the thing! The chai tea/latte had stayed in his hand without a problem, but the _phone_ had fallen! What was _wrong_ with John’s hands???

 The day at work had been spent glaring at Jeff, whose indirect fault the whole incident was, and glaring at Stuart, who couldn’t help but start laughing at random times when he looked at John and his miserable face. A fat lot of good they were as friends. Paul was the only one John could trust to feel sorry for him (and even then he wasn’t sure whether last evening his violent coughing fit had been that, or carefully masked laughter instead).

Ringo hadn’t given John his car, saying that dirty sex in the back of a car went to the top of his morals in life, and so as the day was over, John and Stuart rushed into the train, and then proceeded to spend two and a half hours playing Heads Up! on their iPhones. John had filled Stuart in with the _Plans_ thoroughly, and the man thought they were marvellous. In Stuart’s opinion, John would have to move to the next stage ASAP… which was _exactly_ what John was doing with this Liverpool trip.

They also talked a lot about Paul — mainly John gushed about his perfection, and Stuart kept on nodding with a patient expression. A part of John felt guilty about wanting to go without Paul, but the rest of him was definitely relieved — at least he wouldn’t have to go sneaking around Paul’s back. He would’ve hated to do that (not that this wasn’t kind of… sneaking around his back. But less sneaking involved). Not having Paul in Liverpool just made things that much easier.

At the train station, John and Stuart said goodbyes to each other, Stuart vowing John to come drinking the next evening. John promised they would do that, and they waved at each other before heading towards their respective welcomers. For Stuart, it was his mother… and for John, it was Jim, who stood like a stiff tree, waiting for him with his hands clasped in front of him.

“Hi! How’s it goin’, old man?” John grinned from ear to ear, and Jim huffed before pulling him into a quick, rough hug.

“Old man…” he muttered as he pulled back from John, turning towards the car. “Not even 60 yet…”

John chuckled, immediately feeling better. Who needed Paul for daily entertainment, when one could have _his dad?_

He followed Jim to his car, and went around the blue Nissan to get to the passenger side. Jim didn’t start the car before John had his belt on, following with slightly arched eyebrows as John quickly snapped it to place. Then, with care, he got them out of the parking lot, and started driving towards Paul’s childhood home.

John wasn’t sure what to say at first — it was the first time ever he was somewhere alone with Jim. He wasn’t surprised that Mary hadn’t come at the train station, even though he _did_ feel slightly disappointed. But it was late already, the train having arrived at 10pm, and the current plan for John was to crash the bed as soon as the hugs and quick greetings were changed. Besides, he still wanted to talk to Paul tonight, to hear how he was doing with his own ears… texts weren’t really good for that, and during the train ride John hadn’t been talking to him much either.

“How’s Paul?” Jim asked, after five minutes of a somewhat awkward silence. John shrugged, making an unsure face.

“Pretty ill, but nothing he can’t survive,” he said, frowning. “I don’t like leaving him alone, but there are… things I gotta do in Liverpool, and couldn’t really wait.”

Jim glanced at him, raising one eyebrow, and to John that look was as clear as a day — Paul did it in daily basis, the expression meaning “please, elaborate”.

“Um,” John hesitated — he would get killed if anything leaked before Mary got to hear about everything first, “I’ll talk about it to both of you — it does have something to do with you two.”

Jim looked curious, but only nodded, his gaze back on the road. His silence was somewhat comforting, and John started mentally preparing himself for meeting Mary. Excitement pooled in his stomach as he thought about her, and getting one of those big, warm hugs, accompanied by a kiss on the cheek.

The drive didn’t take long, not with John fantasising about Mary saying “I’m _so_ glad to see you” in different intonations, and sooner than he had thought they were turning to Jim and Mary’s driveway. The lights inside were on and John swallowed, suddenly feeling nervous — surely Mary had to be happy to see him, even when Paul wasn’t there?

“Thanks for the ride,” he said cheerfully at Jim, who muttered something gruffly with a pleased tint in his eye. God, John loved the man. Jim made one see that words were over-appreciated.

John didn’t get the chance to take more than a few steps outside the car before the front door opened, and one of his favourite people in the whole world rushed outside, an overjoyed expression on her face.

“Oh, it’s _so_ good to see you!” Mary called, and dragged John into a hug before John really had a chance to say or do anything, other than tearing up from the mix of feelings he had — relief from Mary loving him even when her official son wasn’t there, joy for seeing her again, and just pure, plain love towards someone he had learnt to think of as his mother in a fairly short amount of time.

“Yeah,” he said, hugging Mary back just as tightly, “you too.”

Mary kissed him on the cheek, just as John had thought (hoped), and then grabbing John’s back bag from the ground, dragged him in with Jim following behind them with a small smile on his lips.

The door closed behind them, and John somehow felt that he had come home — which was an entirely odd sentiment, considering that his home was with Paul. But maybe his parents could be included in that feeling.

***~**~***

_“Please leave a message—”_

“I know you’re never gonna get this, but I just wanted to tell that you calling me just now made me so bloody happy, and I love you so very very much — _achoo!_ Eurgh, sorry about that.  Snot bloody everywhere…”

_“Please leave a message—”_

“Also wanted to say that, um, if ever possibly you wanted to propose to me, it better be somewhere where I can freak out safely, okay? I love you so much.”

_“Please leave a message—”_

“Not that I am waiting for you to propose or anything, but I wouldn’t definitely mind it, like?”

_“Please leave a message—”_

“You know that when they say that when you meet your significant other, the stars align themselves and everything seems to make sense for the first time? Well, I was thrown into this bloody big gay crisis, so nothing really made sense, except that I really, really wanted you. So, er, what I’m saying is that that’s you. You make the world make sense. That doesn’t make any sense…”

_“Please leave a message—”_

“It’s scary, really, how lonely I get without you. I just keep thinking about the way your mouth does this curly thing when you smile, and, um, how much I need to see it right now. I’m gonna have to handcuff you into my wrist for the rest of our lives if it’s always gonna be like this. Also, I’m using your deceased Nokia’s voicemail as a way to vent my feelings to you in the middle of the night, while you’re sleeping in Liverpool. And you’re never gonna hear this. But I love you anyway. I miss you.”

_“Please leave a message—”_

“…I like your stupid face. — _Aaachoo!_ _”_

_“Please leave a message—”_

“Love ya.”

***~**~***

Saturday morning, after chatting with Paul a bit via texts and eating the warmest, nicest breakfast in the world with Mary and Jim glowing with happiness at having “one of the kids” in the house, John went out for a walk — or so it seemed to Mary and Jim. He told them that he wasn’t sure when he’d be back, but that he would be home at least for dinner, and would keep them informed via WhatsApp. During the breakfast John had told about the whole phone incident, and Mary had managed to look sorry for him while Jim — _Jim, the man John had trusted —_ started laughing into his newspaper. John felt betrayed.

It was time for him to get started on his _Plans,_ and the first bullet on his mental list that was titled _Plans: Liverpool_ was… this.

Last time he had been slightly confused with where exactly Paul lived, but now it was definitely clear to him, his mind having grasped the map, and as such knew exactly what route to take. Over the road, towards a golf field, and then past that… All it took was twenty minutes of walking, and…

…And there it was.

He stood on the other side of the road, staring at Mendips with his hands tightly buried into his pockets. He was wearing his leather jacket today, something which made him feel both nervous and rebellious, and he had zipped it tightly up to his chin, as if to use it in an order to protect him from the oncoming storm — which was definitely _coming._

He had made no announcement, hadn’t called, hadn’t done anything to inform that he was coming, and he knew that Mimi hated surprise guests, but… John had had enough of playing into her hands. If he was going through with his _Plans_ — and he was _going_ to — he would have to make her listen, at least once, and after that she could very well decide how she felt about him…

It had been made clear, though, through wordless communication — literally _wordless communication._ It had been seven months without _any_ words from Mimi, except for that seriously homophobic bullshit she had sprouted in the living room of the McCartneys. John felt more offended for Mary and Jim than for himself, because Mimi had dared to accuse _them_ of raising a gay son — good job on _not_ doing that, eh, Mimi?!

John wondered how she would react if he announced that butt sex was his favourite way to pass time.

He took a deep breath and pulled his phone out for a moment, staring at his background. It was Paul, in all his smiling glory, holding Creature up by her armpits. It was one of John’s favourite pictures of anything ever, and always managed to make him smile; this time was no exception. He drank in the sight of his love, thinking that tomorrow evening he would be back in Paul’s warm embrace (pun intended).

John would _have_ to be, so there just was _no way_ that he wouldn’t return from Mendips. He would make it through stone and fire to get back to Paul’s arms by 8pm tomorrow, so there was no way he would fail, now.

His courage returned, he opened his browser, glanced at the page he had open there. Then he pocketed the phone, shaking himself slightly, and walked over the road. Stepping into the garden he pulled out his bunch of keys, including the keys to the shop, to the flat, and to Paul’s girly diary that had pink hearts on the top (a loving gift from George — Paul tended to lose his key, so John had a spare). Amongst those keys was the one to Mendips, had Mimi not changed the lock. Somehow John wouldn’t be surprised at all if that had come to pass, just to keep his gay filth out of the house.

His key still fit into the lock, and he opened the door with his heart in his throat. He couldn’t show any weakness, even though now he felt outright scared — Mimi would find a way to rile him up, would probably try to convince him that he didn’t love Paul and that it was all just a false sentiment, or that he was lying to himself because Paul had killer eyes and soft features (she hadn’t seen Paul with his gorgeously hot five-o’clock shadow though), and in reality just wanted a woman but Paul had managed to lie to him that he _was_ one…

Okay, probably not even Mimi would come up with something like that, but the possibility existed, okay? Besides, if _John_ could come up with it, then could Mimi, too. Unfortunately she had his head — or the other way around.

John wasn’t going to let her come between them. This visit was going to be short, it was going to wake up feelings John wanted long gone, but mainly it was to inform Mimi of one particular thing; John Didn’t Give A Rat’s Arse, and she could very well stop her dramatic moping. Either she loved John or not, but John was _not_ going to let Paul into this limbo-like life where John half-waited Mimi to call at any given time, knowing that she wouldn’t. John was going to offer something better to Paul, and that better meant that John was sure about where he stood with Mimi; either as non-existent, or then as a distant nephew who sometimes called, because John wasn’t sure they could ever be anything more than that, now. Not if Mimi was going to spend the rest of her life hating John’s partner.

He stepped in, sniffing the air a bit. Mendips smelled the same as ever, wood mixing into leather and old fabrics, and moreover there were no traces of a body smelling somewhere. Mimi’s silence could have been explained by that, but sadly it seemed that John wasn’t going to get peace from her that easily.

In the hallway, everything seemed to be about the same, except that the photos on the wall seemed to have been taken down for the most part. Those that remained were of John when he was a child — well before him succumbing to sins and nasty, filthy things, then. He wondered whether his room was still as it used to be, or had everything in there been burned down? He wouldn’t be too surprised if Mimi had just beat John’s bed to pieces with her bare hands to get firewood for the winter, since she had always complained about that being so very expensive.

Somehow the house felt cold, though. Had it always been like this, compared to the warmth of Mary and Jim’s home?

Had John ever seriously been able to call this bland, lifeless place his home?

Well, he _had,_ but he had also fled the place as soon as possible.

 _“Who is it??”_ A voice called from the dining room, and John turned to close the door. Half of him contemplated leaving it open, so that he had a straight escape route, but the other half knew that he wouldn’t have _time_ to make it outside if Mimi found out he had left the front door _open, for all the lot to see inside, heavens John!_

He closed the door, took a deep breath, and then walked towards the dining room.

“It’s me,” he called, and somehow the silence that descended upon the already silent house became _worse._

He could imagine Mimi pulling out whatever weapon she carried around just in case her treacherous nephew showed his face around these corners of the world, and wondered distantly whether he should have taken some sort of a shield with him — sweat was breaking through the skin of his neck.

And then her voice, almost seething in a way that made John’s neck hair stand up and all his instincts to scream _“run”,_ reached his ears.

_“You.”_

John stepped into the doorway, and looked at Mimi in the eye.

Well… the old dragon looked even older, even grumpier, and _less smile-y_ than she had ever before. Standing next to the dining table where a newspaper was open, she had her arms crossed over her chest, a simple flower dress on. John couldn’t remember if he had ever seen her wear something else than a dress, which was slightly absurd in these modern times, but then again, Mimi would have probably been more at home in the post-war society than in the 21st century… all that jazz about bottling up your feelings, and being proper _and_ straight would’ve fit her view of the world like a glove.

“Hi,” he said, and cracked a big, cheerful smile. No better way to get under her skin than look way too happy about not having her in your life. Mimi was one of those people who unfortunately thought that everything revolved around her. Sadly, John was here to break that illusion… temporarily, because nothing could ever keep that personality trait down for more than a few moments at a time. (John had had plenty of go at that.)

Mimi looked like she was about to _destroy him,_ her nostrils flaring. At the same time, she looked oddly… touched...? Although John might have been reading that emotion wrong. As long as he had known his aunt, she had never looked exactly like that.

“What are you doing here?” she said, her tone still cold enough to create an iceberg that would soon throw John off his course — so much for his unsinkable _Plans._ He shifted his weight from one feet to another, and pushed his hands inside the pockets of his jacket; he had kept it on as a clear sign that he was _not_ staying.

“Came to talk ‘bout a few things,” he said, slipping into a slightly stronger scouse — talking like the sailors down the docks had always made him feel a lot stronger, more masculine… more able to close off his emotions in situations where they were _not needed._

“Did you, now?” Mimi looked positively fuming, now. John grinned.

“Yeah, since you haven’t been talkin’ to me,” he said lightly, his heart beating against his ribcage like a steam engine. He wished desperately that Paul was here with him, but that wasn’t the case, and he wouldn’t have done this with Paul — wouldn’t have made him go through this again. As far as John was concerned, Paul would do very well in life with meeting Mimi just once; more wasn’t needed.

He wondered idly whether this was the last time he would ever see his aunt, and didn’t know how he felt about that… Mimi had, after all, been some sort of a parent, and John _did_ love her.

It would be seen if she loved him _enough._

“I have no reason to talk with the likes of you—” Mimi started. Oh, oh, she was _angry,_ “—after everything you _did—_ _”_

“I did?” John asked, his voice still keeping the light note. His hands were starting to shake in his pockets, but he wasn’t sure whether it was fear, or the need to get out, or just sadness — or adrenaline for facing such a dangerous threat? Who knew?

“Yes! Showing up to my doorstep with that… that—”

“His name’s Paul,” John said, fixing a tight glare at Mimi, the lightness leaving his voice. “And in case you’re wondering, we’re still together, ‘n still happy. Remember how that feels like?”

Okay, that was a low blow. He could see it from the way Mimi’s eyes widened, her mouth trembled, and shock entered her expression, although John wasn’t sure whether it was because of the exact implications of John’s words, or because John had _dared_ to talk to her like that. But she had been wallowing here in her damn self-pity ever since her husband died, hating the world and everyone in it, including John to some extent, and John was fine with that, he was, except for Mimi hating _Paul._ If there was one person in this world who didn’t deserve Mimi’s hate, it was him, and John was _not_ going to let Mimi say a _word_ against Paul while he breathed.

“Where is he then, if not here to show your united front?” Mimi said, her voice sounding slightly breathless. John tilted his head, not smiling.

“Home in London, down with a flu,” he said. “I came on my own, to stay with his parents. Got stuff to do.”

“With his _parents,_ _”_ Mimi gasped, looking scandalised at the whole idea. John nodded, flashing a smile.

“Yeah, just wonderful people. Took me right into the family — I’m sure you’ve noticed,” he looked at her with a knowing, raised eyebrow, but Mimi didn’t look apologising at all, just staring at him with a hard, fixed gaze, her chin lifted slightly up, hands never wavering from the tight lock across her chest.

John wondered whether it was possible for him to feel that from the two of them, he was the grown-up. Of course it was a mutual pissing contest by now, but John _knew_ how to do that with Mimi — moreover, he had been living with Paul for a year and a half, followed the man’s ways of managing to be bitchy without even really changing his tone… it was all about the _words,_ and John had learnt to do it with _style._

“I wouldn’t be able to leave Paul even if I ever wanted,” he said, a new smile grazing his lips, “since the family wouldn’t let me _leave._ _”_

“So that is your plan,” Mimi said, her voice freezing, a tiny hint of sadness playing behind her eyes. “To worm your way into that _better_ family, and be part of it forever.”

“Oh,” John said, and smiled, “I’m really glad you got that. At least they’re not gonna turn their backs at me because I fall in love… But there was one thing I wanted to ask you regarding that — which do you prefer?”

He pulled his phone out, turned the screen towards Mimi, and watched her eyes bulge out of her head.

***~**~***

John couldn’t believe he was still _alive._ It was one thing to walk willingly into a lion’s den — it was a completely another thing to walk _out,_ and _without a scratch._

Hell, without a scratch… John was scratched, more like torn apart by Mimi’s claws, but at least he hadn’t _died._ That in itself was a feat… considering what John had just shown her.

John could now tick one point off from his _Plans._ Good job, and the results could’ve been more catastrophic, even though John was fairly sure that Mimi was never going to talk to him again. Well, at least that was clear now, and this time he could say that it was entirely her fault. It wasn’t like John cared _that_ much…

(Hell, of course he cared, and of course he was hurt, but the likes of Mimi just existed, and Mimi would just fall into the same category as Julia and John’s father — _exists, but not in John_ _’s world._ He had Paul, and he had Paul’s parents and almost the whole extended family, and he wasn’t going to let someone like Mimi get on his nerves anymore. He had to be better than that. If he was going to go through with his _Plans,_ he was going to be _worth_ them. He just had to learn how to let go of this _bitterness.)_

He felt desperately like he needed a cigarette, and started heading for the closest store. On the way there he contemplated the ups and downs of smoking a fag — first of all, he _had_ promised Ringo that his last one had been the one on Christmas, and he had kept his promise; it wasn’t like he had been a chain smoker anyway. Then, there was also the promise he had made to Paul at some point… that they _both_ stop smoking, because it wasn’t healthy, and too expensive, and Paul had taken it up to fit in with the cooler kids in the university, not because he had really wanted to. For John it had just been a lifestyle, a way to get Mimi un-paper the ugly wallpaper from the hallway with her ultra-high screaming, his own private rebellion against all the rules.

So, it was only natural that seeing Mimi made John crave for a smoke. Ugh. No, he was going to keep his promise to both Ringo and Paul, and buy chocolate instead. Chocolate good, ciggies bad. _And_ he was going to call Paul straight away, because he needed to hear Paul’s voice.

…Not that he was going to tell anything about what he was up to, but just talking to him would help the churning of feelings in his stomach.

He called, and waited, and waited, but Paul never answered. That was odd, seeing as he was ill and probably spending all of his time on his phone, trying to break John’s recent high score on Temple Run 2 (yes, they _still_ played that game). Then again, since he was ill, he could be sleeping… That was probably the most likely option, that or then he was watching TV, not paying attention to his phone.

The calls went to his voicemail, and finally John gave up and poured his heart out to it.

“Hi, call me when you can, will you?” he said, looking around as he rounded a corner, not wanting to get run over by a bike. “I’m on my way to a shop, gonna get something good to eat — don’t you dare hold it against me, I know all about your ice cream stashes — it’s been good here, although I miss you a lot—”

A woman walking towards her stopped abruptly some 20 yards away, and John glanced up instinctively — and froze.

Oh.

Oh, _hell no._

 _Shit—_ Should John just make a U-turn and scram?? Oh, he just _didn_ _’t need this now—_

 _‘It’s just like that time with Julia, and then the wanker in the bus,’_ he thought desperately; did this kind of events _pile_ on him or what???

“—But yeah, anyway, call me when you can,” he choked the words out, hoping Paul wouldn’t notice anything odd in his voice. “Love you a lot,” he said quickly, and then pulled the phone away from his ear. He cut the call and stuffed his hands inside his pockets to protect himself mentally… and started walking again.

He approached the woman, while she was just standing there, staring at him with a slightly troubled expression. John had put his glasses on after he had gracefully skedaddled Mendips, and took in her face, its familiar lines curling inside his head, comparing _this_ and _then._ There was an ache somewhere in his chest which he associated with shame, and instead of shutting it out, he let it show on his face — to make it clear that he was sorry about what had happened between them.

He took the few final steps needed, and then stared at his ex-girlfriend from the distance he used to — two or three feet between them, Cynthia looking up at him, and John found that he hated that; he much preferred Paul staring straight at him, equal and challenging, not letting John’s bullshit go through him.

Not that John gave Paul any of that — nothing compared to what Cynthia had gone through.

John wasn’t sure what to say at all, and Cynthia was just staring at him, as if she wasn’t sure whether she should smack John against the pavement and run, greet him politely and then run, or just… run. John had already gone through enough face smacking for today, as well as he had done running away from unpleasant things, and besides, the shop was just half a mile away, where Cyn had come from — she had a shopping bag with her, which made John officially the best detective in town. So, he was not going to be the one running.

The awkward silence extended over a painful period of time, getting entirely too far in John’s opinion, and then he just couldn’t take it anymore — his meeting with Mimi was still nagging at his nerves, and too long silences just seemed to hit those with a hammer.

“Hi,” he said, and it sounded so fucking lame even to his own ears. Cynthia just nodded, slightly stiffly, and John wondered what she had been up to since they had fallen apart quite violently — she looked good, her hair having gone back to its original brown colour (she had used to dye it blonde, thinking that John preferred it that way — honestly John couldn’t care less). She had also cut it into a bob, which made her look older and (John hated to think this) even more of a prude. She did have a bit more make-up on than she used to, and her weight seemed to be the same as before; John was looking at the signs, and deduced that Cynthia probably _wasn_ _’t_ too miserable, which was everything he had hoped for his ex-girlfriend.

“Hello,” Cynthia said, her soft and kind voice still the same. John felt a small smile tugging at his lips, but he killed the feeling by thinking of the way Cyn had sounded when she had told him to get out — something he hadn’t opposed to at all, but still made him quite sad… to think he had broken her heart in that way. He should’ve just manned up and talked with her about his feelings fading, and things would’ve probably been better. They _would_ _’ve_ been.

“Visiting Mimi?” Cynthia asked then, with a slow raise of her eyebrow. John huffed and shrugged, some tension leaving his shoulders.

“Was. I don’t think I’m ever going back there,” he said, some of the sadness he was feeling sweeping into his voice. He knew that Cynthia would catch it — and would understand, knowing their history, knowing that Cynthia was an expert when it came to John and his relationship with his family.

“Oh,” Cynthia, bless her heart, looked somewhat shocked. “How so?”

“Er,” John sighed, looking around them. In London they were fairly safe, but in Liverpool one could still get knocked around the head for being gay. “It’s, well, she doesn’t really like me being with Paul. Like, _really_ doesn’t like it.”

“Ah…” For a moment, Cynthia didn’t seem to know what to say. Then her voice turned even softer, becoming gentle as she leaned slightly towards John, a worried look in her eyes. “But surely she wouldn’t— she wouldn’t shut you out completely? I mean… just because you… you’re seeing a man… It isn’t a good reason.”

“For her as good as any, better than most,” John said, closing his eyes for a moment. Could it be possible that Cynthia wasn’t holding a grudge? That would be wonderful, because John would hate such a kind, marvellous girl spending her life hating some arsehole who left her for a man. John had long ago got over her (even before they had separated), but the break-up had been way much harsher for her than what it had been for John. He had seriously been afraid that Cyn would be ruined because of it.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Cynthia said, and her tone suggested that she really, really was.

John didn’t know why, but for some reason he suddenly felt like burying his face into her shoulder, to smell if her flowery scent had stayed the same, and cry.

“Thanks,” he said, offering her a smile, which she hesitantly returned. They stared at each other for a while, before Cynthia looked around, then glanced at her wristwatch.

“Er, listen… if you want, you can come for tea. I don’t live far away — I’d like to hear how you’re doing,” she said, looking at John, biting at her lower lip after she had finished her sentence.

John contemplated it for a second, but truthfully his mind had already been made up the moment the words left her mouth.

“Yeah, why not,” he said, shrugging. “I’ve nothing to do before dinner, anyway.”

Cynthia smiled brightly, and started walking, going past John. John glanced towards the shop, and then went on to follow her, falling into step next to her. He found it astonishing that Cynthia was talking to him, had smiled at him, and hadn’t even seemed to be bothered by John mentioning Paul — she had seemed _understanding_ and _friendly,_ something that John had _never_ anticipated… not that he had thought this kind of a meeting was ever coming.

But… since Cynthia wasn’t screaming at him or hitting him around the head with her shopping bag, John found that he wanted to make amends with her. He would like it very much, not only for his, but Paul’s sake as well. There were moments where Paul wondered what had become of her, whether she had been alright after the break-up, and then other moments where he seemed to be green with jealousy at seeing pictures of John and Cynthia together. Maybe, if John now talked things through with her, and then reported back to Paul, he would become more accepting of John having dated someone for years before him.

“So, did you, um, come to Liverpool only to meet Mimi?” Cynthia asked after a few moments of a rather pregnant silence. John shook his head.

“No, Mimi was a side note. There are a few other things, too,” he said, and Cynthia nodded, leaving it at that. John had always liked that about her — not asking too many questions. Paul, on the other hand, would ask, and John would have to weave his way around the subject carefully… but somehow, he found it even slightly irritating now that Cynthia wasn’t asking anything more about the subject. It made it look like she wasn’t interested in what John had to say.

John had always thought that everything that had gone wrong in their relationship had been his fault, but… maybe there was something in the way Cynthia acted, too, that just hadn’t been compatible with what John needed… which was someone who didn’t _treat him like his mother did — not interested._

“And you — you’re living in Liverpool, now?” he asked, hoping that the conversation wasn’t going to get awkward. To his relief, Cynthia shot him a bright smile, nodding.

“Yes, the city is much better suited for me. I never really felt myself at home in London,” she said, and John wondered how this was the first time he had ever heard that sentiment. Shouldn’t she have said it at least once during their… four? Five years together? Had John been such an overpowering force in the relationship that Cynthia hadn’t managed to make herself heard? Or had she just never talked about what _she_ wanted, until things bottled up and she started nagging out of a sudden?

“I do like London, but the place is expensive as hell,” John made a face, and Cynthia laughed, the soft sound of it carrying over into John’s ears, and from there right into his memories — he would try to remember this version of Cynthia instead of the one he had last seen.

“True, true,” Cynthia said, still chuckling. “Are you still in the shop?”

“Where else,” John shrugged, and Cynthia nodded, now a friendly, interested smile on her face. “Jeff wouldn’t survive a day without me. God, just the other day he would’ve lost a terribly important deal if I hadn’t noticed the deadline in the paper, and ran to the right office outside my work hours… I got home at 9pm, and managed to lose my Nokia in the Thames in the process.”

“What??” Cynthia exclaimed, and then burst out into laughter, looking every bit like the woman John had once fallen for. He smiled too, even though the loss of the Nokia still hurt. He could always get a new one, but it wouldn’t be the _same._ That Nokia had gone through _war_ with John.

“Yeah, can you believe it,” he said, voice becoming desperate. “There I was, texting Jeff about what an arse he was, and then some bloody tourist bumps into me and wheee!! There goes the phone, down from the bridge!”

Cynthia’s laughter bubbled out happily, and John chuckled as well, not able to help it. Maybe in a few years he would be able to talk about this without feeling his heart shatter into pieces. Goodbye, his dear, indestructible Nokia.

“Oh, God, I never thought the Nokia would meet its end like that… Not with everything it has gone through,” Cynthia then said, wiping her eyes. “Remember that time when I washed it with your jeans?”

“You did it once? I did that at least four times, living with you, and a dozen afterwards,” John grinned, and another wave of laughter took Cynthia away.

“I think Paul’s done it at least five times too,” he then muttered, much more to himself. “We really don’t check our pockets, do we lads.”

“It appears not,” Cynthia smiled, looking like she was trying to calm herself down, but a new laughing fit could only be around the corner. John tried to remember when he had last heard her laugh like that — it had been ages… Probably months before their relationship ended, and probably not from John making a joke.

“But what about you then?” he said, looking at her as they crossed the road, Cynthia’s steps taking them towards her home determinedly. “What do you do, then?”

“I’m an art teacher in a primary school,” Cynthia smiled, proudness echoing in her words. John started slowly smiling, and then the words made sense to him, a few memories surfacing, and he jumped slightly forward, meeting Cynthia’s eyes with an enthusiastic grin.

“Nooo! Really? Your dream job! Oh, that’s just fab!”

Cynthia smiled at him widely, then pointed at a rather normal looking terraced house where in the mail box it said _POWELL._ John grinned at the sight, not quite believing that Cynthia had got a job she had always wanted, and had a house, and a mailbox with her own name in it! This was better than what he had dared to hope for — she seemed to be doing extremely fine without him, which was _great._

“I got lucky,” she said, “but I have the job now, and I bought the house two months ago. I’ll put make some tea, you can have a look around.”

Ten minutes later they were seated at the table that was covered with a dot-patterned tablecloth. The decoration in the house was rather tasteful, certainly more than what it was in John’s flat — frankly, the four of them just didn’t care about such things — and it was clear that Cynthia took good care of her home. John was impressed, although he had always known that Cynthia knew how to do that; five years or so with John would prepare anyone for that, save for Paul, who was probably even worse than him.

Cynthia poured him tea, and then settled into her own chair, crossing her fingers under her chin, leaning her elbows on the table.

“So,” she said, a smile caressing her lips, “how’s Paul, then? I take it you’re still together?”

“Oh, yeah. We’re great,” John said, sipping at his tea and trying not to think how odd it was discussing your boyfriend with your ex-girlfriend… if that ex-girlfriend wasn’t Jane, who John thought was a grand girl, as long as she wasn’t a threat to him — which she wasn’t, because Paul was completely over her, and was entirely smitten with John, which John knew _very well._

“He’s in London at the moment,” he said then, Cynthia nodding with a curious expression, “caught a flu, so he couldn’t come. I’m staying at his parents’ place.”

“Oh, I hope he’ll get better… and that is good to hear. I was worried you’d be on the street, with Mimi kicking you out,” Cynthia smiled, and John chuckled, shaking his head.

“No, they’re lovely. Taken me right into the family’s heart.” _Into their hearts._

“That is good. I worried for some time that you’d have it bad,” Cynthia said, and John had to stop for a thinking pause.

Hang on, what—

His astonishment must have been visible on his face, because she smiled brightly, continuing,

“Well, I am sure that you’ve been wishing me all the good in the world, haven’t you?” she asked kindly, and John nodded, numb. “Of course I’ve been doing the same,” she said, and John felt something stupid, like feelings, crawling around his chest, tightening his throat. Oh, he had been such an arse with her… Fortunately she had escaped his clutches.

“That means a lot,” he mumbled into his cup. “Lots of people wouldn’t — lots of people _don_ _’t.”_

“I know,” Cynthia said, her tone both sad and angry. “But I want you _both_ to know that I’ve forgiven you, and just hope the best for you two.” And oh God, now John was definitely tearing up — Jesus _Christ—_

“Thanks, Cyn,” he said, swallowing and blinking, trying to hold his overwhelmed emotions back by sipping his tea. “I’ll be sure to pass on the message — Paul will be glad to hear that. He’s been worried about you, too, ‘cos he feels responsible... About the whole break-up,” he said sheepishly.

“Since you’re still with him, after all this time, I gather that it _is_ a real, loving relationship, and not just some short fling, which makes me feel a lot better about myself… I wouldn’t want to stop you from being with your true love,” Cynthia said, her voice stern but expression gentle, eyeing at John with something that could be described as love — but not the kind that had been there before. “And really, I was a bit down at first, but it was better for both of us,” she smiled. “There is this certain feeling of happiness that I gather from you.”

“Is there, now?” John grinned, looking down into his tea. Well… being with Paul had made him a happier man, there was no denying that. A better man, hopefully, too, and John couldn’t wait to see how they would be in ten, or twenty years… How much they would’ve changed, and how much they would’ve changed _each other_ … for the better.

 _Which_ _…_ brought to his _mind_ _…_

“Actually… If you’re really fine with me and Paul,” he started, and Cynthia nodded to confirm it again, “…I’d… I’d like to ask your opinion about this… this one thing.”

“Yes, of course,” Cynthia nodded. “What is it?”

John fidgeted for a moment with his mug, and then went for his phone, pulling it out with slight hesitation.

He saw only curiosity and friendliness in Cynthia’s face, and that same feeling of love as before. John wondered if Cyn could see it in his eyes, too — because what John felt for her was definitely love, if not the romantic sort. He just wanted her to be happy, and found her company soothing… especially after his meeting with the dragon. At least there was someone from his past who hadn’t turned their back on him, and somehow, he felt a new peace enter his body as he thought of being in good terms with Cyn. It had apparently meant more to him that he had thought.

“Are you sure?” he asked, unsureness sweeping into his voice. “It really has a _lot_ to do with Paul. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Cynthia scoffed, shaking her head.

“I’m well past that. Go on, dear.”

John opened the keylock, and his browser, and lifted the screen so that Cynthia could see it.

She stared, and smiled.

***~**~***

It was Saturday, and Paul had been feeling much better since the morning — and not only because he was feeling physically better, or that he had told everything that was laying on his heart to John’s ex-voicemail that was currently residing at the bottom of the Thames, but also because John had called last night, exhausted from the day, but bubbling with happiness at seeing Mary and Jim. He told about the boring train ride _(_ _“Would’ve been so much better with you!”),_ the marvellous evening snack _(_ _“Wished you were here for it, too!”),_ and the bed _(_ _“…Feels too big without you in it.”)._ All in all, Paul felt reassured that John loved him a lot, but the man had also mentioned about going to a pub today with Stuart… what if—

Stopping himself from going further on that thought, Paul grabbed his tea mug and made his way into their shared room. He kind of felt like watching a series on Netflix, but he couldn’t remember the password… He could’ve always asked George or Ringo, but the two were, erm, _occupied_ at the moment, and John probably wouldn’t answer a text that soon… he had said earlier in the morning that he had some business to take care of _(what_ business??) and wouldn’t probably have his phone at hand…

Ah, but John had left his laptop home, right? If Paul remembered correctly, John was always logged in when it came to Netflix, and they used to watch it from his computer anyway… And Paul knew John’s computer password, so no problem there either.

Calling Creature to himself, he made himself comfortable in the middle of the bed, balancing the lap top on top of his knees while Creature curled into his lap. The cat was warm and soft, and Paul felt more than happy about the fact that John _had_ a cat in the first place. Paul was sure that one day they would have more than one, because every tarot card reader ever anywhere had told John he would become a crazy cat lady, and Paul had no reason to disbelieve them.

He opened John’s laptop and hacked himself in with special congratulations from the jury, and then opened Firefox, sipping his tea.

The page John had last been looking at loaded in front of his eyes, and it was only fortunate that his first thought was _“don’t spill it on the cat”_ as he swallowed a whole mouthful of tea down in one go.

_Jesus Christ._

***~**~***

“So, um,” John fidgeted a bit, the dinner having disappeared into his stomach, Mary having spent most of the meal chatting happily about how great it was finally having a child who didn’t scoff at food, as Paul and Mike tended to do. John was more than happy to eat everything Jim (and _very_ rarely Mary) put in front of him, to the extent that he felt like he had gained a pound or two since last evening. Maybe a sex marathon with Paul after the lad got better would help lose some weight.

And now that the dinner was gone, John had reached the time limit he had set for himself, and it was time to jump straight off the cliff, hoping that the parachute would open… or, whether Mary and Jim were there to open it. It all depended on them now, and John was _so bloody nervous, oh Christ, he was actually doing this—_

“Yes, darling?” Mary asked, pushing some after-dinner tea towards him. John shook his head with a quick smile, wondering how it was possible that even when they ate the exact same things at home, here they tasted better, and the overall atmosphere was warmer.

Maybe it was because…

Hmm.

Maybe it wouldn’t be impossible for John and Paul to acquire such a feeling in the house, one day. Maybe sooner than one would think.

John swallowed, and with his hands shaking visibly, he started digging up his iPhone. Mary followed his hands with her gaze, starting to look worried when he didn’t manage to get it out first. How had it been so easy with Mimi, and still easy with _Cyn,_ and now so hard?

“Um, you see,” John’s voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat quickly; Jim lowered the newspaper he had been reading for the zillionth time, clearly aware that something more than just small chat was going on. Mary just looked kind and encouraging, and John was thrown back into the moment where he and Paul had been sitting in this very kitchen, coming out to the two people in front of him.

John only had to hope… he had to hope that the outcome of _this_ discussion was _about_ the same.

“Er, we’re going to Paris,” he said, and both parents nodded, very well aware of this. They had, after all, bought the tickets for them… Something which John found entirely incomprehensible, touching, and also extremely _fab._

“And, um,” he said, opening the phone’s locking, opening the browser, staring at the screen. His hands gripped the phone, and he swallowed, throat feeling very, _very_ dry. “Well, er, since it’s gonna be Paul’s birthday… I’ve been thinking for a gift. And I’ve been… been looking for it, and I wanna buy it from here — from Liverpool.”

“Yes?” Jim asked, now certainly interested. There was a spark in his eyes, some sort of a deeper understanding of the situation than Mary did, who was looking at John like a shark, her eyes drilling into his, trying to dig out everything about this gift before John even managed to say anything.

“I er… I want to get it with you two there,” John said, his voice shaking with nerves. This was it. _This was it._ This started it _all._ “If… if you’re okay with it.”

Mary and Jim glanced at each other, and whatever it was that Mary saw in Jim’s expression, it made her eyes widen slightly. They turned their gazes back on John, and John could have heard a pin drop with the silence, pressing him on, and his breath got caught in his throat as he glanced back at the phone screen.

“So,” he said, pressing the phone shortly against his forehead before he pulled it back with a deep breath, his body tensing all over, and he turned the small machine over, presenting the contents of the screen to Paul’s parents.

 _“So,”_ he breathed, “if it’s okay for you two — which one do you prefer? ‘Cos I _really_ need help in choosing the ring.”

**Author's Note:**

> So...... the series will continue in the next part! How long it'll take writing that, I don't know, but I promise you that it's coming one day....... this story isn't over ;)
> 
> i also hope you're not coming after me with swords and guns at that ending. hehe. srry ;)
> 
> find me at [tumblr dot com](http://chut-je-dors.tumblr.com)


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